


And No One Saves the Day

by laconicisms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gags, Handcuffs, Hell, Immobility, Knotting, M/M, Mind Games, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/laconicisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes when Dean is good, Alastair gives him a treat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And No One Saves the Day

The punch he takes to the gut doesn't come out of nowhere. It's expected, really, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Dean grunts or tries to, but he can't get any air into his lungs. Henriksen grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes his head down on the table. "And that," he says, "is just a taste of what prison will be like for you, Winchester."

Dean rolls his eyes upward, meets the agent's gaze in the one-way mirror, and wheezes, "I'm so scared." Yeah, that wasn't his best delivery.

"You will be." Henriksen murmurs. He kicks Dean's legs apart and slides his hand down to let it rest between his shoulder blades. His left snakes around Dean's waist to the front of his pants. Dean can feel the heat emanating from behind him - Henriksen's pressed up against him - and he can feel the heat on the front, too, from that hand. "But first..." But first Henriksen begins to grind the heel of his hand against Dean's cock, rubbing up and down.

Dean's mind goes blank for a moment before he hisses and swears. "You sick bastard." He bucks, trying to shake Henriksen off, trying to get the fuck up and off the table and away, but Henriksen is strong (stronger than he should be), and Dean is off-balance and can't get the fucking leverage. "You sick, sick bastard."

Henriksen just smiles.

###

The thing about hell is this: it's not real, not physically real, at least. It's like a dream, or a thousand memories or fantasies, and when Dean is being a good boy and Alastair is in a good mood, Dean gets to live in a not very horrific dream. Like this one.

###

Henriksen undoes the buckle of Dean's belt, then pulls it off, slowly, one loop at a time. He's watching Dean in the mirror as he does it, and Dean tries not to give him anything, tries to keep his face blank, but his irises are blown wide, and there's a kind of odd sensation around his nose, a prickling as if the blood there were rushing away and flowing towards his cheeks.

So much for emotional repression.

The metallic clang as the buckle hits the table startles him, and Dean flinches.

Henriksen pats Dean's cheeks. "So frightened, like a little bird. Hush." (This does not sound like Henriksen. This doesn't sound like any FBI agent Dean knows.) Dean opens his mouth to speak, he thinks, though he isn't sure what he's going to say. It doesn't matter, though, because Henriksen is reaching for the belt again, folding it and pushing it into Dean's mouth. "Bite down. You'll thank me later."

###

He doesn't always remember. Oh, afterwards he will, when Alastair puts a hand on his forehead and whispers _Dean_ and they're suddenly in Alastair's playroom, Dean on the rack, Alastair standing before him – a dream, too – or Dean is back where he first found himself, limbs spread wide, screams in his ears and bolts of lightning flashing around him.(He think they are souls.)

Sometimes he does remember earlier, though, and he can't decide whether or not it's worse.

###

Henriksen isn't holding him down any longer. He was using both hands to fold the belt, and he's using both to pull down Dean's pants, and yet, and yet.

And yet, Dean can't move. There's still something pressing down on him. It feels like Henriksen's hand, but that can't be. (This is wrong.) Dean rotates his shoulders to ease the tension and feels the cuffs bite into his wrists.

"You have a nice ass, Winchester." Dean doesn't need to look into the mirror to know that Henriksen is grinning as he says it. He hears it in his voice, almost feels it in the way Henriksen is laying a hand on his ass, first kneading, then patting, then raising his hand and laying a smack down that makes the meat wobble and makes Dean stifle a gasp. "Look at that. The shape of my hand bright red on your skin." Like a sign of ownership goes unsaid. Henriksen leans over Dean again, mouth so close to Dean's ear. "Your ass is mine." Henriksen makes to straighten up again and Dean throws his head back. The back of his head meets something, but it's not Henriksen's nose unfortunately. There is no crack and instead of swearing, Henriksen only snarls and bangs Dean's own head down and onto the table surface. The force of it stuns him briefly. "Stay like this," Henriksen growls and Dean has no choice but to obey because he literally cannot move his head. For a moment he fears that Henriksen broke his neck, but no, he can still feel, he can still wriggle his toes and flex his fingers, but he can't move. Dean's pulse speeds up because – because no human could do this and when he rolls his eyes towards the mirror, the expression on Henriksen's face is...demonic.

Dean suppresses a shudder. He doesn't spit out the belt and invoke Christ's name to confirm his suspicion; he _knows_ it's true, knows it deep in his gut.

"That was an unwise thing to do, Dean," Henriksen – the demon! - says. He reaches for his own belt buckle, waits to see if Dean has noticed, is looking – he is, he can't look away – and opens it. The belt makes an ominous hissing sound as he pulls it from the loops. "Bad behavior must be punished."

Dean knows what's coming, knows the pain of a beating with a belt. Dad had...had been pissed at him more than once because Dean had been stupid and cocky on a hunt. But when the first strike rains down on his ass, he thinks that Dad had been really gentle by comparison, and he is _stupidly_ glad for the goddamn belt in his mouth. The second and third lash have Dean straining to get away, the forth has him whimpering behind the gag. It hurts, it hurts so much. Like fire licking at his skin, eating away at it. The belt whistles through the air again and Dean can't help but flinch even before it makes contact with his backside. There is, as there was before, a moment when he _doesn't_ feel the impact, but then sensation explodes and he wants to howl, gasps instead.

"Has the lesson gotten through to you, yet?" the demon asks. Dean gulps and meets its gaze again. He doesn't know what his expression looks like, too focused on the demon's eyes, but it must not have been sufficiently cowed. When the demon raises his arm again, he almost wishes it was.

Five more lashes, and the demon stops and murmurs that it's over now. Dean feels gratitude.

It makes him want to punch someone. Possibly himself.

###

"You're one of the most stubborn souls I've ever met," Alastair says, and smiles. "It brings me great joy."

###

The demon starts kneading his ass cheeks again. Before, Dean had been angry, had felt humiliated. That feeling hasn't gone away, but it's over-shadowed by the burning pain, and he considers spitting out the belt in his mouth and ranting and cursing, and then he considers again.

The demons smiles as if he knows what Dean is thinking. It's a smug, self-satisfied expression and fits Henriksen's face perfectly.

"Now let's get back to the program, pet." The demon takes his hands away and reaches into the pocket of Henriksen's jacket. He pulls out a small tube and taps it lightly against his pursed lips. "Lube? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

Even though he wants to, Dean can't bring himself to blink a second time. He keeps his eyes wide open while he waits for the demon to acknowledge the yes. (He doesn't know why he knows he has to; why he knows that blinking too soon will make this a no.) His eyes start to tear up, start burning, and Dean stops breathing he's so tense, and the fucking demon is still smiling at him expectantly, and he can't hold his eyes open much longer, he _has_ to blink. Tears are streaming down his face by the time the demon acknowledges Dean's yes with a small tilt of his head.

Dean's eyes snap shut and he breathes in finally, then grunts, startled, when he feels a soft and slippery touch of a finger right above his hole. It slithers down and then thrusts inside viciously, violently, and Dean's mind goes blank. The finger leaves him and then is thrust back in, and Dean is thinking that this is _penetration_ and he's being _finger-fucked_ , but it's all a bit removed.

Shock, he thinks. He's in shock. Then the demon rains another slap down on his ass with his other hand, finger still buried inside Dean and growls, "Pay attention, Dean."

And just like that Dean's mind is back in the here and now, and the feeling of horror and...and violation flood him again. Dean whimpers.

The demons adds more fingers, thrusting in and out in a steady rhythm, and Dean's not a baby, but he's so close to crying, with pain, with humiliation. He wants this to be over with. Dean hears a sigh and, despite not really wanting to look, he opens his eyes and glances at the demon again.

It looks bored.

It's not even the fake bored look that cops wear. It truly looks as if it wishes to be doing something else instead.

Dean has some idea of what that "something else" might be.

"That should be enough." The demon withdraws its fingers. "I don't know how humans stand it. Not carving out a suitable sized hole before they fuck. It's so much more convenient."

Dean barely has enough time to picture – damn his imagination – what exactly the demon means by that before it pushes Henriksen's dick deep inside Dean – too fast, again too fucking fast. Dean inhales sharply and flinches as the demon starts to pat his head again, thumb rubbing over the tip of Dean's ear. He wraps his other hand around Dean's cock, thumb of that hand stroking over the tip at the same pace.

"Good boy," the demon says, as Dean's cock begins to harden of its own volition. He begins to move, slow and steady and, fuck, _good_ , and it's only when Dean feels his own hips move back and forth in time with the thrusts that he notices that his lower body is free to move, at least.

He wishes it wasn't.

"That agent is a real dog, you know," the demon murmurs while Dean tries to block out the sound, the sights, the fucking feeling of that cock inside him, these hands on him. He stills his hips, but the demon is going faster now and the speed makes his dick … it makes Dean think that it's bigger somehow. It feels so much bigger than before.

"Literally."

The demon stops moving suddenly, his balls pressed up against Dean's ass, and he grabs Dean's hips and then there's pressure and Dean bites down on the belt as the cock inside him grows to fucking epic proportions. A scream rips free from his throat, barely suppressed by the gag.

"Shh," the demon says. "There's still a bit more to go." And Dean. Can't. Take. More. He tries to pull away. (He's free to move? He is.) But trying to tear away just makes it hurt _more_.

###

Sometimes when Dean is good, when he's pleased him – by being stubborn, by not being stubborn; by being a loud-mouth, by keeping quiet - Alastair gives him a treat.

###

He thinks he's blacked out. He's not sure. One moment, Dean's rearing up and trying to pull away; the next the demon is sitting on a chair, holding Dean in his lap and playing with his balls.

They're still facing the mirror. Dean looks debauched. Henriksen – the demon – looks cool.

The demon's cock is still up Dean's ass, and it's still the size of a bowling ball. The belt is gone from Dean's mouth, though. "What?" Dean asks, because there's just something...abnormal going on here. "What...?"

"A knot, Dean," the demon replies. "I did say this agent was quite the dog." He smiles – bears his teeth – at Dean.

A knot. A dog dick.

Fuck.

"Please, do," the demon continues as Dean tenses in preparation to pull away. (Dog dick. _Dog dick._ ) "I love the feel of your sweet little ass tearing. The feel of blood trailing downwards. Of course," he says, rolling Dean's balls between his fingers, "you could just simply be a good boy. Are you a good boy, Dean?"


End file.
